Culture Shock
by Night Hawk 97
Summary: Brosca barely knew of trees before his escapade to the surface. Now, trekking through the Brecilian, he's had enough. He can barely wrap his head around it: they change with these things called 'seasons', grow out of rock, shelter enemies and attack passers-by. Oddly, they're not good conversationalists, but that's mainly because they're preoccupied with infuriating rhymes.


Brosca had heard whispers of forests like these, but barely any detail penetrated the gates of Orzammar, and even less permeated down to the dust in the slums. "They grow like giant rock moss, they do, and tall as the sodding caverns, and with a green roof, too", a merchant had said to one of his patrons.

He'd seen trees since arriving on the surface, or course. They covered the back of the mountain, standing just as tall as promised and with scraggly limbs supporting armfuls of snow. He remembered thinking they were strange things, but more intelligent for rooting themselves into the ground than the surfacers who walked atop it and risked falling into the sky.

As Duncan lead them further down the mountain, the cool vanished and the trees changed with it. Smaller trees cluttered the road which, amidst swearing, Duncan had called "undergrowth". And absolutely _everything_ was green.

It was nauseating.

The things grew everywhere, even climbing up the stonework in those ruins, reminding him of the lyrium veins in the mines.

The accursed swamp was the first time the dwarf learned to hate trees. He'd been carelessly indifferent before; the novelty wore off quickly once he accepted the fact that pillars grew, and they were only annoying when they got in the way in a fight. But in the swap, things were in a constant state of dampness, and while the ground was bad, the trees were worse; hideous soggy things that carried a layer of slime, smelt like dark corners in Tapsters and dropped water and branches. They Warden recruits spent more time walking in circles, avoiding the stupid things that also sheltered the darkspawn, than looking for the damn treaties.

But this forest, the Brecilian, was something new. There were more trees in this one place than he had seen in the rest of Ferelden, and, though Brosca had only been on the surface a short while, he'd seen _a lot_. They were packed so closely together that their greenness stretched to its neighbours and did indeed form a roof, which blocked the sky and sun, to the dwarf's great relief. For that alone, Brosca thought he'd like forests, but the premature optimism, it turned out, was unfounded.

There was a wider assembly of things capable of causing pain crammed into the Brecilian Forest than there was even in Dust Town. Branches whipped his exposed face, the undergrowth tangled his boots and hid holes until an advanced warning was too late to be of use. There were hundreds more small biting creatures than he could possibly swat, fog was common, night came early and when it did there was never anywhere to pitch a tent.

Moral was at an all-time low; Alistair maintained the appearance of a kicked puppy, more so even than the mabari, Sten was less stoic and more irradiated than usual, the old hag –er, Wynne– groaned as often as her old rickety knees did, the surplus of birds had Shale constantly on edge and prepared to mash lesser life forms, while the assassin complained about the state of his hair on a regular basis. The only one used to such things, Morrigan, saw fit to complain on principle. On the other hand, Leliana spun happy tales about enchanted forests until all present were prepared to push her towards the next available lethality, and Oghren was so deep in his drunken stupor that he frequently thought he was in the Diamond Quarter, often in someone else's bed. For someone who'd recently gotten his rear thoroughly handed to him by a tree, he managed to look remarkably smug.

The forest was home to the unhospitable Dalish, who didn't quite attack, but looked very tempted. Other inhabitants held no such reservations. The odd group had been set upon by the standard and ever present genlocks, hurlocks, ogres and shrieks, hungry spiders, bears, wolves, werewolves and demons, annoying animated corpses, ancient evil Revenants and a persistent red squirrel.

The hostile wildlife would be pruned back, only to return in all due haste. You'd think they'd be intelligent enough to learn not to voluntarily attack the competent, if unconventional, travellers.

Apparently, Brosca decided as he spun out of the way of a flailing leafy limb, even the trees hadn't properly grasped this important survival concept.

Unlike the foliage of the Frostback Mountains, Ostagar swamp or any road in between, the trees of the Brecilian were surprisingly mobile and violent. Brosca blamed the mabari for this; the trees had been perfectly reasonable for a whole five minutes, until, that is, the dog had cocked a leg and the victimised tree had given him a kick up the ass. Shale had cackled in gleeful satisfaction.

When Brosca queried Morrigan about the trees' strange behaviour, all he got was an aptly mysterious and vague, "the veil is weak here", whatever that meant.

Bloody witches. Bloody trees.

To make matters worse, the dwarf couldn't distinguish the more hostile trees from the standard, merely irritating ones. At least, not until he walked past and the tree came to life and followed, prickly branches swinging for his head.

After the tenth or so bash to the braincase, Brosca came to really _loathe_ the forest.

Then, while stomping through one of the rare clearings, the group was confronted by an ancient grey old oak.

"What manner of beast be thee that comes before this elder tree?"

Brosca was too weary to be surprised that trees were apparently capable of verse, but Leliana was ecstatic and Sten's expression –yes, The One– was hilarious.

Ignoring the loquacious vegetation, the dwarf resignedly turned to nearest human, after all, they knew more about the strange surface than he, "The tree is talking. Is that normal for this time of year?"

"Pardon?" Alistair looked blankly down at his short companion.

"I suppose it's another one of those 'seasonal' changes, right?" he asked. Duncan had explained the seasons briefly when his newest recruit had complained about the snow, reassuring him that it wasn't cold all year round. In Ferelden, it went from the frozen wet time, to wet and cold, to really sodding wet and hot, back to wet and cold, all in the period of one year. The dwarf preferred Orzammar, in that regard, since, although the lava was a little uncomfortable, at least the climate made up its bloody mind. For some reason the seasons changed the trees, and so, to the dwarf, it was logical to assume the seasons were responsible for this development as well.

"Not as far as I'm aware." The warrior shrugged, "Morrigan, do the witch-trees periodically molest innocent travellers in harvest time?"

"No, fool."

"Hey, it wasn't _my_ idea!"

Brosca shot his traitorous friend a glare, "Alistair, you know that cheese I gave you? I want it back."

At Alistair's pout, the dwarf rubbed his forehead and constant headache. The tree was talking again, and it was difficult enough for him to decipher the words, but he got the gist.

"The trees give us quests now? Whatever. Zev, take Oghren, Wynne and Shale and the path down the right fork, the rest of you; the left. Leliana, shoot that stupid squirrel already, I don't care if it's 'adorable'. Let's find this flipping acorn, hunt down the werewolves for these elves and get out of this damn forest already."

Sten nodded his approval slightly hurriedly, "Gather your allies, let us face this Blight soon."

"Agreed. Get me near that archdemon, I _really_ need to hit something."


End file.
